Twisted City (13 page)

Ocean waves lapping to and fro.
That’s the best he can describe it.
Even though the two are quite dissimilar, and he’s never even been in an ocean
anyway, only seen them on TV and in the movies. Maybe it’s because her mouth
feels so smooth and warm and wet and her tongue is the wave by which he glides
across and that’s the way he thinks the ocean ought to feel. Yes, that sounds
as good as this feels. It won’t be long before
his own
tidal wave comes roaring out.
First starting as little
spasmic
waves from the far reaches that build into bigger
ones as they close in and collect into each other until they engulf him and
shoot out of him in one shuddering geyser.

“
Mmm
,”
Jizell
murmors
deliciously, steady at it until she’s sure he is totally drained. She tilts her
head back to face Mongoose, licking her lips.
“Third time in
a row and still shooting like a loaded forty-five.”

“With
at least one more in the chamber,” Mongoose boasts his young vitality.

“You
better have. You’ve paid very little attention to momma cat since you came in
and you’re not going anywhere until you make her
purr.”
Jizell rolls her
tongue with the last word.

She
stands before him, wearing a short silk robe and nothing else. Slipping it off,
she lets it fall into a puddle of fabric at her feet. Her body is beautiful.
He’s seen her naked before but every time he does it’s like seeing her nude for
the first time all over again. Her large breasts are perfectly round with
caramel brown nipples, a flat stomach, hips slightly narrow, and a small nest
of hair between her legs. She lets him get a good eyeful and then crawls over
him like a jungle cat. She smothers his face between her melons; he grasps both
between his hands and suckles.

She
mounts him and starts out with long, slow strokes, winding up and down. Her
exquisite
sugarwalls
work wonderfully on him,
squeezing and relaxing, squeezing and relaxing. She practices her
Kegals
daily.

When
he first came to see Jizell he was so nervous that he almost busted prematurely
in his pants from the anticipation alone. He’s only been with one other girl
before, long ago, and that
itself
was an awkward
experience, so he’s hardly had any sexual experience. Everything is practically
new to him but Jizell is a great teacher. She’s already taught him a great deal
of things yet there is still so much more to learn. She enjoys having a cute
young buck as himself to teach the ways of sexual gratification. Although in
the beginning there may have been ulterior motives on her part, perhaps there
still are, it doesn’t change the fact that she has ended up genuinely liking
him, and although she no longer cares for him to pay, he still leaves her
something.

Jizell’s
mounting gasps grow closer and closer
together until they become one long descending moan. She collapses onto Mongoose,
her big
boobs
smooshed
against his small chest, she is sated. The cat has purred.

Afterwards
they lie sprawled naked on the bed and have their pillow talk; usually about
each other’s past lives, good to the bad, bad to the good.
Past
lives gone in the blink of an eye as if God slammed down his fist, bringing the
world to its knees, shaking it down to its original foundations and forcing it
to start over by way of survival of the fittest.
For Mongoose the
cataclysm made his life no harder and no
more easier
than what it already was. Jizell is fascinated with his stories, just as he is
with hers. Neither
have
ever spoken to anyone about
their past lives so freely and unabashedly. It’s kind of like therapy only with
better benefits. Two different people with two different backgrounds with over
a
decades
age difference, but both share a common
thread – the struggle.

There
is something specific that has been on Mongoose’s mind lately and he isn’t sure
how to go about bringing it up. Everything is all still so new to him and he
isn’t sure if it is lust or maybe something else entirely. He definitely feels
a bond. Or maybe it’s because he’s deprived himself of human social contact for
so long and all of a sudden here she is, like Aphrodite herself came to ease him
of all his woes with her powerful sedatives of coital medication. But there’s
also that mental connection. It’s all so confusing, yet within that haze he
knows it can be a detrimental mistake to possess such feelings but in such a
situation it is easy to push that negative to the side. Funny how you can
simply ignore a flashing red light in your head when it concerns feelings like
these but if it has nothing to do with the heart that same flashing red light
can and will be taken into immediate consideration. It is human nature to not
only want to be needed but to be personally desired as well. To have that is
worth more than anything else, especially in today’s world.

Max’s
head suddenly appears at the side of the bed.  He stands on hind legs with
his paws on the bed cushions, laying head on paws and giving his master and his
master’s mistress some serious pouty eyes.

“
Awww
,
hey Max,” Jizell says sympathetically, reaching over to pet Max on the head,
massaging his ears and jowls. “You want some attention? Is that it? He’s really
a great dog, huh?”

Mongoose
rubs Max behind the ear. “Yeah, he’s all right.”

He
shooes
Max back down and Jizell says unjustly, “
Wha
’ cha being so mean for?”

“I
want to ask you something.”

Attention
sparked, she says, “What’s up?”

He
gazes directly into her eyes and says, “If you have a chance to quit, would
you?”

She
considers this for a moment and then says, “This is all I’ve known since I was
fourteen. What else would I do?”

“Anything.
Nothing.
Whatever you want.
I mean, you’re also like a doctor, right.
You told me yourself you were going to school to become a nurse so you could
get away from the life.”

“Yes,
but that was before. It’s different now. And even if I wanted to quit this, I
couldn’t. Vincent isn’t about to let me quit. He made it very clear that he
wants me as a doctor
and
a madam. And everybody knows that whatever
Vincent wants, Vincent gets.”

“What
if I told you that I can take care of all of that? You won’t have to do this
anymore. You can do anything you want.”

There
are things that sound too good to be true and then there are things that sound
sincerely true. In the short time the two spent together he has never once
bullshitted her about anything. He isn’t the b/
s’ing
type. And aside from that she can smell b/s a mile away. She should know; she’s
had to spend years within its company. He has been honest in everything he’s
told her and all that she’s asked him. He even told her without hesitation his
real name when she asked him.

And
now, looking back into his eyes, she feels he has spoken nothing but the truth.

“You
can do that?” she asks.

“If
it’s what you want.”

She
crawls back on top of him, kissing him long and deep. She rises up, arching her
back, jugs on full display and takes both in her hands and squeezes them
together, massaging inward and outward, readying him for what is about to be
the ultimate lay of his young life.

Then
again, even if it is just lust, who cares?

Vincent
sits still on a chair, arms resting on his lap, thinking. He’s been in one of his
moods for the past few days.
Mostly from the slow crawl of
anticipation.
He’s gone over it a hundred times and will go over it a
hundred times more before it comes to fruition. The one thing that concerns him
most is his masked comrade. The doc said that his arm needs a minimum of six
weeks to heal. Vincent will undoubtedly wait that long if need be but his loyal
comrade insists he will be ready in four weeks. When the time comes Vincent
doesn’t want him to be anything less than fully recovered, even though if he
weren’t at his best he can potentially out-do any one of Vincent’s men, but at
100% he is nearly unstoppable. The surprise altercation with the dark
swordsman, as the masked man calls him, has lit a fire under his ass and he has
kept himself secluded within his own chambers since their return from The
Pinnacle’s front yard. Vincent assumes he’s been mentally willing himself to
heal faster and preparing himself for the next two weeks. Whatever
works.

A
hand appears from behind Vincent’s head and seizes his chin, lifting it. A
razor sharp edge is pressed against his neck under the jaw line where the
carotid artery rests beneath the skin. Pressure is applied and then the
straight razor is brought upward in a slow even stroke collecting a roll of white
foam as the whiskers are shaved from the skin. The blond haired woman dunks the
shaving razor in a bowl of water, rinsing it off to use again. The blond was
beautiful once, model material, but like many others who
fell
victim to unfortunate accidents during the beginning of the end of the old
world, one side of her face is severely scarred. That doesn’t matter to
Vincent, or to anyone else for that matter, not in this day and age, especially
since her body is immaculate, and like all of Vincent’s personal women she is
to keep her body exposed at all times.
Strictly enforced.

While
he gets his shave he confers with one of his generals about their new elite
force of men and women.

“I
believe you will be more than satisfied,” the general tells him. “Most of them
were already fully equipped with their own weapons and those who weren’t didn’t
need much schooling about how to use a knife or sidearm.”

“Do
they know the logistics?” Vincent asks, stretching his upper lip down under his
top teeth, allowing the blond to carefully swipe the blade over it.

“For
the most part they do. But it’s just like anything
else,
they were given only certain specifics to keep any anxiety held at bay. Any
further information can wait until the time comes when you make an
announcement.”

“Excellent.”

This
is the blonde’s week to shave Vincent. She is among three other girls who are
rotated on a three week basis, and although she’s been doing the menial job for
a long time, it always keeps her on edge. After each clean swipe relief sweeps
through her, but with each new swipe
made  another
ripple of dread replaces the relief, and on it goes. Thankfully she’s able to
hold a steady hand, but even so, mistakes happen. Only one swipe from being
finished and then she can leave, get dressed, and go back to her little girl.
Her daughter is three years old. So many men have
unbiddenly
been inside her that she doesn’t know who the father is, nor would she like to
know. It’s just her and her daughter and she does her best to provide for her.

She
gasps to see a small nick across Vincent’s cheek, a trickle of blood forming
there, but for a slight moment she’s hopeful that she may be able to wipe it
away without Vincent ever knowing about it, but she hesitates a second too long
and Vincent catches the distressed look in her eyes.

Vincent
holds out his hand and tells her to hand him the mirror.

“Let
me wipe the rest of the shaving cream off first.” She tries her best to keep
the quaking fear out of her voice.

“Mirror
first, love.” He waves the fingers of his open hand inward.

She
retrieves the hand mirror and towel from the table and hands over both.

He
gazes at his reflection –
Ah, what a handsome reflection it is
– and his
eyes lock onto the small line of blood across his cheek. His gaze averts to her
and she quickly
downcasts
her eyes.

“I
– I’m so sorry. I – I didn’t mean to. I promise it won’t happen again. Please
forgive me.”

Vincent
presses the towel against the cut, it is very small and will heal fast, then
cleans off the remaining cream. He places the hand mirror and towel on the
table and then slides the shaving razor from her fingers.

Her
whole body starts to tremble and her throat seems to shut off the air going
into her lungs.

Vincent
reaches up to her hair and delicately runs his fingers through it, and snatches
a fistful at the back of her head and slashes the razor across her cheek.

She
gasps, instinctively reaching up to her face, and Vincent releases his grasp.

“All’s
forgiven, love. You may go now.”

Vincent
roars with laughter as the blond tearfully and hastily goes out the door.

The
general stood watching the whole thing. He’s seen Vincent do much worse for
less. To be honest, he himself has done much worse for less.

“Ah,
I feel a little better,” Vincent says to the ceiling. He stretches his arms and
legs, then goes to his recliner and plops himself in it. Pointing a finger at
his general he says, “Do you know what the shortest battle in recorded history
was
?”

The
general does not know.

Vincent
rests the back of his head on his recliner and gives his general a blank stare,
his voice devoid of emotion as he says, “The battle at Jaxstone Valley.”

At
this moment Vincent goes far away from here. Although he is staring directly at
his general, he isn’t seeing
him,
he is seeing
something entirely different.

“It
was said to have lasted approximately eight minutes with over two thousand men
killed. Simple enough story. The people of Jaxstone were
stubborn,
they stayed when they should have gone, so they were given no mercy. After the
battle was over the remainder of Jaxstone men were killed, their sons were
executed, the women’s lives were spared, turning them into playthings and their
daughters grew up to become loyal to those who had slaughtered their own
people. Eight minutes to eradicate an entire community. Eight minutes.”